


Constrained

by vix_spes



Series: Fan Flashworks Challenges [66]
Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts, Hannibal Extended Universe, M/M, Post-Badon Hill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 19:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10394286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vix_spes/pseuds/vix_spes
Summary: Galahad's lover chafes in the aftermath of the battle of Badon Hill.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at writing in this fandom!

Galahad knew that he and Tristan had an unconventional relationship but that had never bothered him, never bothered either of them. They weren’t like Bors and Vanora, they never had been, never would be and that was fine by them. They had been together for years, ever since a young Galahad had seduced the older knight and, even though neither of them had said explicitly, both knew that death would be the only thing that would ever part them.  
  
Of all the Sarmatian knights that remained on British soil, Tristan was the most free-spirited. It was not unusual for him to disappear sometimes without a word, for what could be days at a time. Galahad never worried about it; Tristan always kissed him goodbye and Galahad was safe in the knowledge that the older knight would always return to him. It was simply Tristan’s nature; the wanderlust was in his blood after all, for he alone of the knights was from one of the Sarmatian tribes that was constantly on the move, much like the birds that they trained and hunted with, just as Tristan had trained his Iseult.  
  
It was this wanderlust, this craving for freedom that was making Tristan’s recuperation seem so interminable to him. In truth, Galahad could not care less if Tristan was bored and restless because he had survived and that was all that mattered to Galahad. He would willingly deal with his lover’s grumbling, frustration and glares because all of those things meant that Tristan was alive.  
  
They had all known, when they had donned their armour and gathered their weapons that day that not all of them would survive to see another day. They had simply been the lucky ones until now. They had their freedom and, if they did die, they did so as free men having chosen to fight. With the assistance of Merlin, Guinevere and the Woads as well as clever tactics, they had managed to despatch a great many Saxons but Cerdic had truly brought a horde with him and, no matter how many they killed, still more came.  
  
Every knight had been fighting for their life. They had seen countless battles, mostly against Woads, over the years. Battles where the odds had been stacked against them, battles where they had been left battered and bruised but never anything like this. They had been separated from their brothers-in-arms, not knowing which of their comrades yet lived.  
  
It had only been when the smoke had cleared that the true devastation had been revealed. That another of their brothers had fallen. It had been Arthur’s cry of anguish at discovering Lancelot’s body that had spurred Galahad on to find his lover, praying to all the gods he knew that Tristan was alive.  
  
He had scoured the battlefield, pushing aside bodies both Saxon and Woad alike until, finally, he found Tristan surrounded by a circle of dead bodies. A keep of despair ripped itself from his throat as he stumbled forward, dropping to his knees at Tristan’s side. Galahad’s fingers had almost immediately found the wound in Tristan’s side, his life-blood leaching sluggishly from his body. Crying out again, Galahad let his head drop onto Tristan’s armoured chest in his grief.  
  
It was then that he felt it.  
  
It was nothing more than the faintest puff of air, so slight that Galahad was terrified that he’d imagined it. Reaching out with shaking fingers, stained red and slick with Tristan’s blood, he pressed his fingers to Tristan’s neck and felt his eyes sting with tears at the shallow pulse that he felt.  
  
“ _Tristan?_ BORS! Get over here, he’s alive. Tristan’s alive!”  
  
With Galahad hovering over him, Bors had carried Tristan to the tents that had been hastily erected to treat the wounded, only to be told that Tristan’s injuries were too much for them to deal with. For Galahad, it was too much. His emotions were taking too great a battering. Exhausted from the battle and emotionally overwrought, he almost burst into tears when Guinevere offered the services of Merlin himself as well as several others of the best Woad healers.  
  
Galahad stood in the corner of the tent, not caring that he was still in his armour, still covered in blood, sweat and dirt, as they worked to save his lover. He made no comment as they stripped Tristan of his armour and washed the blood and grime from his skin, as they daubed his wounds with strange concoctions, with unguents and foul-smelling pastes. He did nothing but dig his fingers into his palms leaving bloodied crescents behind as they chanted in their guttural but strangely lyrical native tongue. Eventually, they decided that they had done all they could and bandaged the wounds and left the two Sarmatian knights alone together in the tent, not that Tristan had any awareness of what was going on.  
  
Over the next few days and weeks, Galahad had only left Tristan’s side when he absolutely had to and Arthur had done his best to only call on Galahad when there was no other option; with Tristan out of action, Galahad was the second choice having been trained by Tristan. Every other waking – and not waking – moment had been spent at Tristan’s bedside. It had been an endless regime of monitoring his injuries, keeping the wounds clean and freshly dressed and trying to get Tristan to consume at least some broth and water. Even Iseult had made a reappearance, as if knowing that there was something wrong with the knight who had raised her. She had only ever tolerated Galahad but, with Tristan indisposed, she had gone to Galahad willingly enough at is whistle, settling on his hand and allowing him to feed her.  
  
It had been five long weeks before Tristan had finally woken up properly. He had been more restless over the previous few days and the healers had been muttering that it was promising but Galahad had seen the wound that curved around Tristan’s ribs, an ugly mark that would no doubt leave yet another vicious scar on his lover’s body and had tried not to get his hopes up. In the end, he had woken one morning to familiar fingers threading through his hair and tugging gently on his curls. Looking up to the head of the bed, he had seen Tristan smiling at him, even though his face was creased with pain. Letting out an exultant cry, Galahad had leant in to kiss Tristan hard, only pulling back when he heard Tristan hiss in pain, apologies tumbling from his lips. Tristan was having none of it though and fisted his hand in Galahad’s curls, using his grip to pull Galahad’s lips back to meet his own.  
  
Those first few days were the only ones where Tristan put up with Galahad’s fussing without complaint. In truth, he was still too weak to do otherwise. Even so, he submitted with ill-grace, frustrated with his inaction despite knowing that his wounds were still healing, that his body was still mending. Tristan’s frustration with the insistence of both the healers and Galahad that he stay in bed did not improve as the days went on. Instead, it got worse. He continually chafed at his inaction and constantly pushed his body to do more than it was capable of. It all, finally, came to a head about a week after Tristan had woken up. Galahad had returned to their room with the midday meal to find Tristan a panting, sweating mess on the floor with a few drops of blood leaking from the wound that had all but killed him. It was the last straw for Galahad.  
  
“What are you doing? Are you trying to kill yourself? You shouldn’t be out of bed, Tristan. You need to recover.”  
  
“I’ve spent weeks in that damned bed, I need to get out of this room. I feel constrained in here. I need to see the sky, feel the sun on my face.”  
  
“We’re still in Britain, Tristan; sun is somewhat hard to go by.”  
  
Galahad’s attempt at a joke raised a slight quirk of Tristan’s lips but that was all and Galahad sighed as he helped Tristan off the floor and back onto the bed, perching by Tristan’s hip. “I’m sorry. I know that you hate being stuck in here, hate being constrained but it’s a necessity. Do you have any idea how close you came to death? How many nights that I spent at your bedside, terrified that I was going to lose you? By all rights, you should be dead, Tristan. A lesser man would be dead. It’s only by the skill of Merlin and your own sheer stubbornness that I warrant you’re still alive. You need to give your body a chance to rest and heal, let it mend. I promise, as soon as you’re well enough, I will not stand in your way of whatever you want to do but please, for now, rest. For me.”  
  
Galahad released a breath that he hadn’t been aware he was holding as Tristan gave a low chuckle. “Shameless pup. You know that I will do anything for you. Very well, if you’re going to keep me constrained in here then it is up to you to stop me from getting too frustrated.”  
  
“And how would you suggest that I do that? Tristan, no!” Galahad protested as he found himself pulled from his perch next to Tristan’s hip and manhandled until he was straddling Tristan’s lap. “What part of don’t over-exert yourself and let your body mend did you not understand?”  
  
“I don’t plan on over-exerting myself; you’re going to do all the work. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you would prefer to comment on LJ, you can do so [here](http://vix-spes.livejournal.com/277231.html) or on DW [here](https://vix-spes.dreamwidth.org/268158.html)


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